


visitant

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Extra Treat, Gen, Ghosts, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “Better watch it, rookie,” one of the pilots is saying to Luke, hands buried in the innards of her A-wing as she talks. She’s not one of Wedge’s, not directly anyway, not that that has ever stopped Wedge from assuming responsibility for any of the pilots around here, but in an organization as ragtag as this one, you get to know everybody. Her name percolates to the surface of his awareness: Colis, if he remembers correctly. “They say you start seeing weird shit this time of year.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



“Better watch it, rookie,” one of the pilots is saying to Luke, hands buried in the innards of her A-wing as she talks. She’s not one of Wedge’s, not directly anyway, not that that has ever stopped Wedge from assuming responsibility for any of the pilots around here, but in an organization as ragtag as this one, you get to know everybody. Her name percolates to the surface of his awareness: Colis, if he remembers correctly. “They say you start seeing weird shit this time of year.” Luke is standing next to her, head tilted, hands on his hips—Wedge still can’t tell if that farm boy veneer is one-hundred percent real or not, not that it matters, that backwater earnestness he conveys every which way, including his stance—nodding along like what she’s saying is reasonable.

They’ve had a farm boy or two roll through their ranks. They’ve always lost their naïveté in short order.

Ducking his head, Wedge tells himself to mind his own business as he goes about tuning up his own ship. If his pilots want to rib the new kid, well, they’ve all gone through it. Time-honored traditions and all that. And it doesn’t seem to be hurting Luke any, who only leans closer, both to see what she’s doing, fingers wrapping in wires where she tells him to, and to ask questions, because there’s not a ship in the Rebellion fleet Luke Skywalker hasn’t shown an interest in. And the pilots all love him for it. “That’s kind of vague,” he says, shifting, giving Wedge a better glimpse of his hands all wound up in thin strands of black and red and blue, ship’s guts not so different from the inside of an X-wing’s. “What kind of weird shit should I be looking out for?”

But this particular topic… it’s not Wedge’s favorite, the reminder sending a chill up his spine. If Luke’s lucky, he won’t figure out from personal experience what she’s talking about. Some of the pilots don’t. Even the ones who’ve seen a lot of death. Which… certainly applies to Luke. But some of them aren’t so lucky and they’re the reason tales of ‘weird shit’ propagate so quickly through the ranks. Even when a fair share of that number—Wedge included—would rather everyone pretend it doesn't happen.

Crouching to pick up a tool, she pivots slightly and smirks, eyes catching Wedge’s from beneath her fuselage, inviting him to share in the joke. Wedge, in turn, shakes his head minutely, severe enough that she nods in understanding, grimacing apologetically. “Oh, you know…” A hint of abashment slows her answer, just as Wedge had hoped. His pilots are good people. Sometimes they just need a reminder. “Just people being silly. Pranks and stuff. Gotta keep your eyes open.”

“Pranks?” Luke asks, his voice taking on a ponderous, soft quality. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time…?”

Luke’s voice fades into the background as he launches into yet another of his improbable tales of bizarre coincidences and expert marksmanship and tight flying—or whatever this one’s about that Wedge wouldn’t believe if he hadn’t seen Luke’s skills at work for himself. He’s not well-trained, not yet, but he’s got more raw potential than Wedge has ever come across in all his years of flying. At this point, Wedge would trust just about anything that might come out of his mouth, even if he’s still not sure what the hell a womp rat is.

So Wedge is working on honing him into a fighter pilot.

So far, it’s gone well.

And Luke’s a good guy. Doesn’t deserve to worry about things like—like…

Wedge sighs, screws his eyes shut, lets his forehead thunk, briefly, so very briefly, against the side of his X-wing, the only admission he truly lets himself have about the truth. Which is: people see weird shit this time of year.

 _Wedge_ sees weird shit this time of year. Has since he signed on with the Rebellion in truth. Well, no. Not quite that soon. No, that first year, he’d laughed the warnings off as legends, stories set down by the old hands to scare the most gullible of the new recruits. He’d only just signed on, you see, and hadn’t faced anything yet. Not a damned thing. Not even a scraggly little Imp patrol on some nowhere world in the Outer Rim.

For reasons obvious to Wedge, he doesn’t spread the story around. And there are a few others who also refrain from paying their knowledge forward, hoping maybe to avoid unduly influencing others into seeing something, too. But some folks, Wedge thinks, like to talk about it. Clearly. Otherwise it wouldn’t ever have made its way around the many and varied Rebellion circles.

The first time… the first _few_ times… it had been ships. Not so dastardly, he supposes, except for how their paint jobs had marked them as ones he knows for a fact had been shot out of the sky or blown to bits in space, their pilots unable to eject in time, caught in explosions and crashes and every other nasty end a person might face when trapped in a vehicle that can go as fast as starships do.

Sometimes it’s just sounds, the aching squeal of rent metal or the crackling shrieks of the dying heard over the comms. Echoes far creepier than they have any right to be.

This time, it’s Biggs and he’s hounded Wedge’s steps all day, a still, silent specter flickering in his peripheral vision no matter which way his eyes rove. Orange flashes, dark brown. White. No charred black though. No red. Might be that’s a good thing. Wedge can’t get a good look at him; that might also be a good thing, but he knows who it is anyway. As personally responsible for his pilots as he holds himself, he always knows. And he knows he’s just gotta ignore it. Pretend like the heavy, sinking guilt that grows harder and harder by the day, sits with the weight of a bantha on his chest and in his stomach, isn’t set off by the apparition.

It’s not _real_ after all. It can’t hurt him.

Not physically anyway. Not any more than not being there to save Biggs already does. Not being good enough or fast enough or lucky enough. Compared to those things, a visual reminder is nothing.

He tells himself that anyway.

Fumbling his spanner, he curses under his breath, a bare whisper so as not to alert anyone to it. A whisper that’s still somehow loud enough to draw Luke’s attention his way. He offers a quiet word to Colis, hand clapping onto her bicep briefly, and strolls toward the patch of hangar space Wedge has taken as his own for the day.

“Need a hand?” Luke asks, jerking his chin at the mess Wedge has made of his repairs. He looks like hell probably. His X-wing certainly does, but Luke is kind enough to refrain from commenting.

Biggs pops out of existence and back again, orange-nothing-orange, a distraction Wedge can’t quite ignore. His attention catches on it—and his answer, when it comes, is a few seconds too late to count as normal. “Yeah,” he says, loosening his shoulders, turning the opposite way though it does him no good. “Yeah, sure.”

He throws the spanner at Luke, who catches it with one hand, just as deft as Wedge has come to expect from him, as attuned to his surroundings outside of the cockpit as he is inside of it.

“What was that you were telling Colis about pranks?” Wedge asks, waiting to point out what he needs done until Luke’s slipped under his ship to reach where Wedge is standing, his hand trailing across the metal skin of the belly as he comes over.

“Oh,” Luke says, cheerful, launching into the story, a good enough diversion that, later, Wedge won’t be able to remember just when Biggs faded from view entirely. And he’ll be grateful to Luke for that when he notices—might even say as much, confusing Luke in the process because it’s just a _story_ , Wedge. A good one, yeah, but c’mon, I’ve heard better. From _you_ even.

And if he does tell Luke he’s grateful, he might even tell Luke why.

Though maybe not.

Probably not.

After all, the less he has to think about these experiences, the less anyone else has to hear about them, the better.


End file.
